‘Fucking bastard.’ Shaun shakes his head.
Rachel instinctively shrinks into the sofa. She doesn’t recognise the man opposite her as her brother, normally so calm, so controlled.
‘Sorry, Rach. It’s him I’m mad at, not you. Never you. The arsehole. The fucking arsehole.’
‘I can’t believe he’d do something like that.’
‘He’s sick in the goddamn head. That’s why he did it. The prick gets some sort of twisted thrill out of sticking the knife in once again.’ Shaun’s still pounding one hand against the other, fast, furious, as if to vent what’s boiling up inside him. ‘Can’t believe you had to suffer such shit. No wonder…’ He gestures towards her bandaged arm.
Then he stands up. ‘I’ll get your jacket. We’re going to the police. Sooner the better. They need to be informed, so they can arrest the bastard and throw his fucking arse back in jail. Where it belongs.’
‘No.’ Rachel presses herself against the sofa, as if to beg its protection. She can’t deal with the police, not straight after Doctor Judgement. A limit exists to how much crap she can handle in one day; right now, she’s hard up against that boundary.
‘We have to, Rachel. We can’t let this go, no way. He’s breached the terms of his release.’
‘Not yet.’ A plea for time.
‘Mum wouldn’t want us to waste a second. You know how she gets about all this.’
Her mother, her Achilles’ heel. Shaun’s not above a spot of manipulation, it seems.
‘It’s just that…I can’t deal with this right now, Shaun. The doctor at the hospital - she was awful to me. My arm hurts like hell. And I’m worried the police will blame me. Say I ought to have realised it was him. But I didn’t. How could I, when he’s fourteen years older now?’
Shaun sits back down. ‘Nobody will blame you, Rachel. I’ll be there, with you, when you tell them.’
‘I can’t.’
‘The police might well understand you needing a little time to get your head together, but any longer, and yeah, they will be blaming you. For dragging your feet in coming forward.’
‘A few days.’ He starts to shake his head, and she presses on before he can speak. ‘Give me some time, then we’ll tell them, I promise.’
‘We need to go today, Rachel. Immediately. Now his identity’s been uncovered, you’re not safe from him. Or he might be planning to do a runner, leave the country.’
She hasn’t considered that possibility. Then a thought strikes her. ‘He won’t have a passport. He’s supposedly being monitored since his release, so there must be some way of preventing him getting one, even with his new identity. Besides, if he were intending to hurt me, he’d have done so by now. He’s had every opportunity.’
‘I suppose so.’ Shaun doesn’t sound convinced.
‘A few days. That’s all I’m asking.’
He doesn’t reply.
‘Please, Shaun.’
‘OK.’ He sighs heavily. ‘I’ll go along with you on this, but only so far. You asked for a few days, so I’ll give them to you.’
She smiles her gratitude at him.
‘You’ve got until the end of the week.’
Rachel nods. ‘That’s fine. Thank you.’
‘After the week is up, you’ll either come with me to the police or else I’ll go alone. That’s the deal, Rachel. It’s not open for negotiation.’
21
THE UPPER HAND
Monday morning. Mark’s called in sick to work. He’s sitting in his car, parked outside an imposing detached house whose size proclaims its occupants as being very comfortable indeed financially. Eyes shut, he leans back against the headrest, digging deep for the last dregs of his courage, although the search is proving difficult. His self-worth has taken a heavy beating already from the episode with Rachel Morgan.
Mark’s about to subject it to the likelihood of similar treatment from a different woman.
His mother.
He’s read his grandmother’s letter so many times he knows every loop, slant and curve of the handwriting. Each word has burned itself into his memory.
…your mother has decided to move away from Exeter and change her name, and it is her intention to begin a new life, a life without you…
After fourteen years, the emotions sparked by the words still chill Mark. This is a long overdue visit, though. One final attempt to shatter the frost of her exterior. Discover if a real woman exists anywhere inside. One who experiences some kind of warmth towards her son. Even if she can’t manage love. Of course, the chances are slim she’ll have grown a heart over the last fourteen years, but, hell, this is his mother. Hope hasn’t completely died within him. Joanna Barker’s rejection has eaten steadily away at Mark over the years. He’s no longer a cowed boy; he needs to confront her.
So here he is, on a damp Monday morning in Cardiff. Taking advantage of the fact Natalie’s in London, using the delay to reconnect with his mother. She lives, along with her second husband, in the house he’s parked outside. Mark knows she’s remarried, in the same way he’s aware they own this quasi-mansion in the affluent suburb of Cyncoed. Because last night he spoke with his grandmother for the first time in fourteen years.
Linda Curtis. A woman whose warmth of soul makes her an unlikely candidate for having such a flinty daughter. Easy enough to track her down. His grandparents have always been stable people, not prone to moving around. When Mark starts his search on Sunday evening, he’s hoping they won’t have moved house. Sure enough, when he types their old address into an online telephone directory, there they are: R. and L. Curtis. Roy and Linda. Still in Exeter. Mark even recognises the number, long forgotten by him. He punches the digits into his mobile straight away.
The phone rings for a long time. Mark’s on the point of ending the call, and then his grandmother’s voice comes on the line. Older, to be sure, less firm - she must be in her eighties now, he thinks - but it’s his grandmother, no doubt about it, and for a few seconds he savours the sound of her.
‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ Speak, Mark, say something, he urges himself.
‘It’s me.’ He curses himself for the stupidity of his words. Ridiculous. She won’t recognise his voice when all she remembers is his pubescent treble.
He tries again. ‘It’s Joshua, Gran.’
She’s silent. Well, his call must be one hell of a shock after all this time, when no verbal communication’s taken place between them for fourteen years. His grandparents always found the idea of visiting him in Vinney Green or prison too disturbing. Angry and despairing whilst locked up, he’s unable to bring himself to contact them by phone or letter, figuring what’s left of his family will do better without a loser like him. Stupid, really. Both Roy and Linda Curtis are people of warmth and emotion, unlike their only child. After his release, his new identity prevents him from getting in touch with them. So many wasted years, he thinks.
‘It’s me, Gran. Remember? I used to play Go Fish with you when I came to visit and you’d bake me chocolate brownies.’ Perhaps he’s taken her too much by surprise, or maybe she’s beginning the slow decline into dementia. What else can he say to convince her? He pulls memories from his brain, searching for the right one, the one to prove his identity conclusively, when at last she speaks.
‘Joshua.’ Surprise and wonder mingle in her voice. ‘Is it really you, my love?’ Her words are like a hot shower on a cold day for him, especially the endearment.
‘Yes, it’s me, Joshua. Or Mark, as I’m called these days. My new identity, you know.’
‘Always Joshua to me,’ she says. ‘Always my lovely grandson. Your conviction was a terrible injustice, my darling. All the fault of that other boy. You were never capable of anything so vicious.’
Mark doesn’t reply, because he’s too choked up.
‘Always such a gentle soul, you were.’ His grandmother’s fond tones warm him even further. ‘Like your father. Not a bad bone in either of you.’
‘I didn’t do it, Gran.’
‘I know, my love. Your granddad, he always believed you innocent as well.’ Mark registers sadness in her voice, along with her use of the past tense.
Please God, no
, he thinks, whilst preparing himself for the worse. Roy Curtis, seven years older than his wife, stands a fair chance of being no longer alive.
‘Is he…’ Mark can’t ask if he’s dead. ‘Can I speak to him, Gran?’
‘No, my love. He died.’
He closes his eyes against the pain. ‘‘When?’
‘A couple of years ago now, it’ll be, come the summer.’
‘I’m sorry, Gran.’
‘You’ll be wanting to ask about your mother.’ Sharp, is Linda Curtis. She’s guessed the underlying reason he’s called.
‘Yes.’
‘She’s remarried. Joanna Stone, she is now. Married a property developer and moved away. Lives in Cardiff these days.’
Mark poses the question that’s tormented him throughout the years. ‘Why didn’t she want anything to do with me afterwards, Gran? When I got sent to the detention centre?’
Linda Curtis sighs. ‘You know how she’s always been. She’s a hard one, my daughter. We tried to persuade her otherwise, but she was adamant. Changed her name back to Curtis, then moved away to escape all the media attention. Said she…’ Mark can imagine what his grandmother’s unwilling to say. How Joanna Stone considers her son an embarrassment, and worse. ‘We told her you couldn’t have done it, how it was all a dreadful mistake, but she’d have none of it. I don’t see much of her these days.’
‘I need to contact her, Gran.’ No need to mention his likely return to jail or the underlying reason. ‘Can you give me her address?’
‘She’s not changed, Joshua.’ He gets she’s trying to warn him, prevent him from disappointment, but he’s a man now. When he sees his mother again, it’ll be as an adult, on equal terms, and it’s a risk he needs to take. He writes on a pad the details his grandmother gives him, and they chat for a while. Mark ends by telling Linda Curtis he can’t promise to keep in touch. She understands. She’s fully aware of the restrictions posed by his new identity. No need for Mark to mention he may soon be back behind bars.
Now, the morning afterwards, his resolve of the night before is entirely absent. ‘She’s not changed.’ His grandmother’s words make him consider heading back to Bristol; hasn’t he suffered enough maternal rejection? He doesn’t, though. This is too important. His mother has been a festering wound for too long. Time to prise off the scab.
A BMW 740i sits in the driveway, its silver sleekness matching the wealth of the house, telling him somebody’s home. With any luck, it’s his mother. It’s daytime on a Monday. Mark assumes Phil Stone – his stepfather, what a weird notion - is out property developing or whatever it is he does. Not that he gives a shit about the man. He’ll ring the bell; if his stepfather comes to the door, Mark will make some excuse and return later. His reunion with his mother is something that needs to happen without anyone else around. Besides, Phil Stone almost certainly doesn’t know he has a stepson. No way will Joanna Stone have told her second husband about her son, the convicted child killer, not if she’s moved cities and changed her name to get away from him.
A deep breath in. Mark begins his counting ritual as he gets out of his car.
One, two, buckle my shoe.
He walks around the BMW, up to the front door. A brass lion’s head knocker sits solidly in the middle.
Three, four, knock at the door
, he counts and then does so. Two loud raps echo out into the cold April drizzle.
No response. Mark waits.
Five, six, pick up sticks.
He tries again. One more loud knock of the lion’s head.
Steps sound in the hallway.
Breathe, Mark. One, two
.
In, out.
The door opens.
His mother stands there, staring at him.
She’s not changed much. As bony as ever. Older, obviously, the lines between nose and mouth scored deeper than Mark remembers. More make-up than before; heavy foundation, set with powder that’s caking slightly in the creases of her face. She’s smartly dressed, the cut of her cream silk blouse proclaiming its designer pedigree. Better coiffured, too, her dark hair cropped into the latest style. Her perfume, a musky, cloying scent, drifts into Mark’s nostrils. Overall, it’s unmistakably her, but an enhanced version of fourteen years ago, equalling extra intimidation. Joanna Stone is more unapproachable than Joanna Barker ever was. A rattlesnake compared to the common viper of before.
She doesn’t recognise him, of course. He’s grown a foot in height since she last saw him; a man stands before her instead of a boy. He’s the last person she expects to pay her a visit anyway. Hurt twists inside him. She’s his mother, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t something trigger a maternal memory in her? The cast of his features, perhaps, or the resemblance to his dead father. Instead, she stares blankly at him.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ Impatience in her voice.
Mark’s unsure exactly how to proceed. He goes for the simple option.
‘It’s me, Joshua.’ No change in her blank expression. ‘Your son.’
Either displeasure or anger, Mark’s not sure which, replaces the blankness. As well as something suspiciously like fear.
‘Joshua? What on earth are you doing here?’ She glances around, as though afraid his presence on her doorstep will somehow render her
persona non grata
with her neighbours. ‘You’d better come in.’ She opens the door wider, standing aside so he can enter.
She presses herself against the wall as Mark steps into the hallway, clearly unwilling for any part of her to make contact with him. He may as well be a leper.
Unclean, unclean.
Joanna Stone doesn’t take him into the lounge, ushering him into the kitchen instead. This one room alone is as big as his entire flat back in Bristol. No white marble in his kitchenette back there, either, unlike here. Her arms fold across her chest in a
keep away
posture as she leans against the fridge freezer. No offer of tea or coffee, no suggestion he should sit down. Clearly, she’s not expecting him to stay for long. Mark leans against the large oak dining table, its solidarity a stark contrast to the apprehension chewing him up inside. He’s unsure what to do with his hands; suddenly they’re too big, too awkward. He thrusts them deep into his pockets, despite the overly casual appearance it must give him.